Full Blown Rant

For the last couple of days I haven’t had one single solitary original thought. I’ve considered whether or not I should go to the movies without my son, but if and when he finds out, he’s going to get all butt-hurt. I can’t begin to tell you how wonderful some alone time sounds – just me and my ego. I’ve debated going for a nice swim, but that means wrestling myself into a swimsuit and then getting out of that thing once its’s actually on and wet requires the jaws of life and I’m not into all that effort. The library is only three blocks away but when it’s hot as Satan’s taint outside I am not trying to make that voyage. I could drive but my car seats are generic leather and I burn my thighs every single time I get in. Every. Single. Time. Besides, did I mention it is three blocks away? I feel like Al Gore himself will hail down on me and begin yelling about my carbon footprint and I really can’t handle that kind of guilt and personal responsibility. I’m Catholic, I wake up that way and slowly work my way into a place of moderate ease.

The last few days I’ve felt more like a caged animal. Pacing and waiting. Waiting and pacing. I just need for something to happen – something to break or maybe the last thread to snap; the last grips I have on sanity to finally give way. How could it not? I don’t get political here. I’ll leave it at that but the state of our Nation right now has brought me to pray more than I have ever prayed before. When I say pray, I mean pray for others, not the praying you probably imagine that I do although I still do that too. God, if you’re listening I want a Red Ryder BB gun, some Kendall Jenner lipstick (cuz I can resell that on the web and make BANK,) a pet monkey that won’t eat my face off and a BBQ. That’s really it. I have low standards. I want you to know I really had to think about that last one and all I could come up with was a BBQ. I also figured out that if the monkey eats my face I’m cooking the hairy little beast. So yeah, I’ve been praying for others but their prayers are WAY better. No face eating monkeys for them. The world can be a really dark place, I have to be able to laugh at it or I’m liable to slit my wrists (or yours) when the Slurpee machine isn’t working at the 7-11 and it’s all I’ve thought of two days; especially when the rest of the world is hurting. Maybe you should be praying. Just saying…

I made the mistake of thinking I could poke fun at the tabloids. I thought I would look at a popular women's magazine and find one of their stupid quizzes and answer all the ridiculous questions and show you guys how absurd and one-sided these things are. My hope was that I could point out that there are more than A, B and C answers that are available as viable answers. Instead I found that wavy eyebrows are the new trend. This is real? Are you kidding me? There was an entire article dedicated to this “hot” new trend. They look like someone having a seizure drew them on. No thanks. I’ll include a link at the end of this for your amusement. I also counted no less than 12 articles on Tay-Tay. I am so freaking over Taylor Swift. Will someone please find her a new boyfriend or scandal to be a part of? Isn’t there something we can do with her as a society? She’s distracting us from what’s really important – Kanye. He must be hurting so much right now. *sniffle whelp* Did you know she released her album on the anniversary of his mother’s death?? Tragic. What’s worse?? I know that!! Kill me now!!

**Ring Ring** “The old Taylor can’t come to phone right now. Why? Oh, cause she’s dead!” Give me a break – give us all a break. Sorry, can’t speak for everyone. Give me and Kanye a break, he’s been through enough…

I’m done hating on Tay-Tay. I’m done hating on Kanye, he’s married to Kim – he has issues enough. I’m done looking outside of myself for inspiration; it all sucks. I suck too but at least I know it and don’t purport to be anything other than what I am. When I am stuck in the muck and the mire I say something about it. In doing so, I sometimes find myself coming to grips with my reality. Reality check: not every day is inspired. The world is not the glistening pearl I would have it be. Morality is set by each individual and I can no more change or judge your morals than you can mine. You can try, many have – I don’t recommend it. I’ll wind down because I’m thread bare and you’re bored. We numb ourselves. I get that much. The crap in these magazines – the pages and pages of pure crap astounded me. It’s been forever since I actually looked at a magazine. It was crazy depressing what we consider entertainment. It’s also crazy depressing what’s happening in our news. It’s just so worrisome to me that we are going to end up a society of people who can’t get a grip on loving one another and expressing ourselves in productive and non-harmful ways, but we’ll all have wavy eyebrows and playlists full of Taylor Swift. 

I feel better now. Thanks for listening. The old Tina can’t come to the phone right now, she’s dead.

PS: NOT ONE SINGLE SOLITARY CURSE WORD!!! BOOM!!

http://www.cosmopolitan.com/style-beauty/a12140099/wave-brow-trend/

So you have a vagina

I have an ingrown hair in my armpit that has thrown my entire world on its axis. It has seriously fucked up my entire world. It’s crazy painful too. This isn’t the kind of thing that classy and dignified women talk about and it certainly isn’t what they lead a conversation with. That’s why I’m writing it and you’re reading it. I noticed this little beast two days ago in the shower while I was shaving. While I may talk like a dirty trucker I do manage to keep up with basic grooming rituals including, but not limited to: brushing of hair and teeth, use or antiperspirant/deodorant, regular showers, shaving (as previously mentioned – cuz hippies are cool but body hair is smelly) and laundry when I can no longer see the floor in my bedroom and my pants stand up on their own. That’s disgusting, even as joke. I am actually really fucking clean. To an anal retentive degree; I am a clean human. So, I’m in the shower and I graze this bitch with the razor and I didn’t whine or anything, but I notice it’s tender. I touch it and notice that there is a lump. I have cancer. That’s it, I have cancer, I am dying and it’s time to start thinking about how to allocate all of my debt. That was Thursday.

Friday I went to work feeling like crap on a cracker. I love going to work on days like this. I feel like I’ve earned the right to be a total bitch to everyone around me. I was on my period [shocker for the guys who may be reading this, I do have a vagina and it does still works] and I felt miserable. I work in an office FULL of older men. Not old like Crypt Keeper old, but older Christian men with wives and children who are on the UBER conservative end of the spectrum – men who would rather never ever have to deal with anything in this arena. They’d probably just as soon send me home for a week; which I would welcome if I honestly thought they’d leave me alone or believed I would be allowed to live it down upon return.  I’m popping pills like Pez in the breakroom because it’s the only thing keeping me from throat punching Paul and Steve says to me “That’s an awful lot of aspirin you’re taking today.” He clearly thinks he’s funny. I’m not amused. I want to rip my uterus out and slam it on his desk. Instead I reply “It’s a maintenance program,” which was a stupid thing to do because now Paul is curious. “Maintenance program?” he asks from his office with the look a 6^th grader gives you when you try explaining quantum momentum. More like the look your dog gives you when you ask him something in what you think is dog voice but really is just stupid human voice.  Picture it…tilt head to side…drop brows…there. Got it. I didn’t know how to explain the lack of makeup, sweatpants and pill popping. I just looked at him and very softly said “You have daughters, right?” You would think this guy was going to stuff his fingers in his ears and start crying out “LA-LA-LA-LA-LA, I can’t hear you!” He straight up looked at me and said “Never mind, I’ve heard enough.” That’s all it took to make him uncomfortable. He’s married, has two daughters and two sons and I didn’t even get to tell him my crime scene jokes. I feel short changed. That was Friday

Saturday I have a flat tire. It’s not flat, it has a slow leak. It’s been that way at least two weeks. I’m really lazy. I hate taking care of mechanical crap. I’d just as soon replace the whole damn car if I had endless supplies of cash. Windshield wipers busted? Get a new car! AC broken? New car! Is the dead bolt to your front door sticking? Time to move. I’m not handy, I’m not nice and I’m not good at math. There is very little that is redeeming about me at this stage in the game. The reality is that I know better than to walk into an auto shop for ANY reason unless otherwise accompanied by someone or something with a penis. I don’t even think there has to be actual brain activity, just a penis. Is there a handbook for reference that I can refer to? It never fails; I get fucked [figuratively – not literally] every time I take my car in to get serviced. It’s like I have a neon sign that says “I have a vagina, so please make sure to treat me like an asshole and fuck me without lube!” I absolutely love being taken for a ride. “Hey, that regularly priced oil change that is normally 30 bucks? Yeah, we don’t have that synthetic oil so it’s actually going to cost ya 90 bucks ok?” Anyhow, that slow leak turned into a nail in my tire and ended up costing me to get it replaced. In hindsight, it’s my own damn fault for not asking to see the tire and the nail. I wanted to say “Now you’re just making shit up and probably even stuck the nail in there because I walked in here by myself and I am sans penis,” but then I realized that probably wouldn’t help matters any and when I looked around I realized I was the only chick in there. All the other ladies going through this on Saturday were smart enough to stay home and ask a male friend to do this shit for them. 

All things being what they are: me being a bitch, never growing a penis, never giving up my vagina to be any different than I am – I am proposing a new business. For a nominal fee, maybe hourly [still working on the details] women need to be able to hire men as errand boys for mechanical stuff. I am tired of getting taken to the cleaners. A friend of mine reminded me that vagina rhymes with “rip me off” and I totally agree. We need to do something about this! Send a penis in its place. Vaginas do enough dirty work. I really think we need our own handbook. “So you have a vagina: A handbook for navigating the afterlife,” because let’s face it; once you really learn how to use the damn thing, it’s all downhill from there. 

Music for your ear-holes

Here are the YouTube links for some music for you boys (and girls) to get your "she did me wrong" music on. I've included links for That Dress, Deceiver and Reaction. Turn it around is noteworthy also, but a little too positive for this post. Stay bitter my friends!

https://youtu.be/A_TrnbPAtlA

https://youtu.be/o5V9i8B0zd4

https://youtu.be/VyphWKe8Y-Q

Keeping it real!

I’ve been going through some existential life bullshit lately. I feel slightly broken, as evidenced by my last few posts. I think I figured it out though. Seasonal depression. That’s got to be it. I’d also like to hold Mercury in Retrograde and my pre-menstrual status personally accountable. It’s so much more fun to be off-beat and witty with my posts but lately I’ve been subjecting myself to the likes of Jewel, The Cranberries, and Sarah McLachlan. This all leads to really crappy emotional mo-jo and contributes to sub-par writing. I’m sorry people. As I type this “Fumbling Towards Ecstasy” is playing on Pandora and I can’t even pretend like I’m about to change it. In fact, if there was a Snuggie within reach and some cheddar popcorn this party would be ON! The only thing truly saving me from totally giving up is the fact that I actually put some damn effort into my attire today. In spite of everything that was screaming inside of me this morning saying “Bitch, grab those damn sweatpants, you know you want to! You don’t need to brush your teeth; you don’t care about the dudes you work with. Deodorant? Who needs that shit? In fact, if you rub some garlic under those pits, maybe those fools will back the fuck up.” Legit ya’ll, every FIBER of my being was on fire this morning. Burning with the itch [that sounds like I need an ointment or cream] to say fuck it and run. I’ve done this in my drinking history, this would be a first in sobriety. This adulting thing is bullshit. It hurts and it’s not funny until you put it on paper.

Yesterday I was sitting at my desk asking for straightjackets and silently praying that some random act of God [or kindness if you ask me] would come and snuff out my boss. Today I was laying on the floor of the gym at my apartment complex; which it DIRTY AS HELL, so I’ve probably contracted something communicable now, pontificating on whether or not I would be missed if I just didn’t show up – anywhere…anymore. Morbid? Maybe. Mercury. Retrograde. Pre-menstrual. I’m not suggesting I need an asylum but maybe a staycation is in order? I have no other explanation for my sick and indulgent propensity for emo chick music as of late. Hold on – I think I hear Alanis Morrissett… “Isn’t it ironic?”  Let’s not even get me started on how misused the word “ironic” is. Fuck! We would be here for at least another page. It’s coincidence people! I will put money on the fact that what you mean to say is: it’s coincidental. See how easily I’m distracted? Where did that damn straight jacket go? And yo, my skin is mad itchy – I think I got scabies; no more crying on the floor at the gym.

At one point last night I realized just how much of a pussy I was being. I was standing in the shower and I was having a little pity party going over the events of the day. I doing that Office Space thing in my head where I re-enact how I would have had things play out in a perfect world. You know, where you say what you want without any repercussions for said actions? I’m in the middle of telling my boss I want a damn raise for correcting his countless fuck-ups because his heads not in the game, that I want more respect, that I want Tim to quit pissing on my toilet seat – in fact, quit using my fucking bathroom altogether and grow the fuck up! I’m telling him that if he ever snaps his fingers in my face again to get my attention he is liable to lose those digits because that’s incredibly disrespectful, I’m not your household pet and although I’ve come a long way in my program of spiritual growth; I am not so far along that I am above biting a motherfucker. All of this is happening in my shower while I’m shaving my legs [my pity party hat is not getting wet BTW] and while I’m bent over shaving [which is also real attractive] the bar of soap falls from the ledge it’s sitting on and lands square on my head. Now, sure it’s funny, but it was also a kind of SNAP THE FUCK OUT OF IT moment. No it wasn’t, I’m lying. I was a little bitch about that too.

You’re waiting for a point. I don’t have one. I’m crazy, my posts have suffered, I’m sorry but I fear they may get worse. Mercury. Retrograde. Pre-menstrual. Now I’m just trying to see how many times I can say pre-menstrual and make you guys uncomfortable. I know I am. LMAO. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some emo chick music and crying to get back to. 

Seasonal Depression

I am tattered in places

Worn around my soft edges

I stare through the frames

Time

Structure

It all plays like reiteration of my favorite verse

or favorite tune

Like keys on a piano

Replicating themselves until I can hear

Nothing else

Blinding sound

Snapshots of memories formulate behind my eyelids

Like a child’s Viewfinder

Each click releasing me from

Innocence

Each turn

A simple dance

Whispers and shadows gather

On the floor at my feet

They pull at the hems

Taunt me in their usual fashion

Close my eyes tightly

Until the light comes

Until it’s safe

Again

With my tattered dress

And softened shoulders I dare to march on

Trusting where I stood

Space and time occupied

By “Her”

Is merely space on a dancefloor,

Song ended

I am free to leave

The wired

Behind the veil of the internet

I'm immutable beauty 

The wires 

Marionette strings

Arms and legs writhing 

Genuflect

For praise of Grace

A shallow scream brought to the surface

Traipsing across the cool 

Exterior

Of the keyboard 

Wires carrying the message 

Abating the savage within 

Transitorily

Attention and praise only last so long

Parades come to and end

Costumes get returned

Curtain call comes 

Eventually

I shudder 

I shiver

Naked before the world

Smeared mascara 

No wires to hold me

Writhing for you all

Why I write or "What's the Alternative?"

REASONS I WRITE

1)      Therapy is Expensive – On any given day there are about a hundred different thoughts that swirl around in the swampy soup bowl of my brain. I am constantly in a battle with myself. I have a committee in my head that tells me you people talk shit about me all the time, that you are better than me, that I shouldn’t even try, that my ass is fat and I need to change pants. If I don’t get that stuff out, it will destroy me. Ever seen a soda can explode in the freezer? Yep, like that – clean up on aisle “Tina” again!

2)      I Enjoy Making People Laugh – I have always maintained that whether you are laughing at me or with me; please just laugh. I would prefer that we laugh together instead of like that time all my classmates watched me walk home with the back of my dress tucked into my tights, but hey, they can’t all be winners, right? Since childhood, I have always sought to make people happy, even to my own detriment at times – but a smile and genuine laughter is worth all the gold in the world. Well, maybe a little gold never hurt anyone right?

3)      Destroying Someone’s Character Isn’t an Art Form Yet – I say “yet” because I firmly believe that if you give me enough time, I am stubborn enough to make just about anything happen. Character assassination could be the next Olympic sport if I have anything to say about it. I’m going for the Gold. Don’t worry Americans I’m bringing it home for the team!! We’re #1!!

4)      Jail is Real -  I am already an insufferable bitch at least 18 days out of the month and even that is being generous. If I didn’t write to vent all this carcinogenic crap out of my system those 18 days would turn into the full month and “insufferable” would become loathsome, repugnant and intolerable. I look good in orange, but I’m too pretty for jail. I write instead.

5)      I Have Zero Patience – I have zero patience for bead working, knitting, or anything else with small and moving parts. I also have failing eyesight. I’m vain as well and I refuse to do anything about any of the above mentioned. I have tried making jewelry (because I’m vain and like pretty things) and I end up getting pissed off because my hands and eyes won’t cooperate with one another. I start swearing and banging shit around like an adult version of a toddler. “Fuck this fucking piece of fuckity fuck!! Fucking cock! Bitch ass piece of shit!!!” Or something like that.

6)      I Can’t Afford Truck Loads of Xanax – See # 5. Do I need to say more? Really?

7)      Eventually Even the Libraries Close – I do a pretty good job of occupying myself given the hopeless nature of my circumstances; I am a 37 yr. old potty-mouthed woman who barely functions in public. I have a disgruntled disposition that I make no apologies for, and for that reason I spend a lot of time alone. I have grown to appreciate this time. I for damn sure like it a hell of a lot better than pretending to be someone that I am not around a bunch of people that I am certain will go home and talk mad shit about me anyhow. Don’t cry for me; I get to spend time at my favorite place in all the world – the mother fucking library! I love the smell of books almost as much as I love the smell of Christmas Trees or defeat and sadness as I squash a competitor.

8)      Slapping People is Frowned Upon – There are people that I want to slap when I see them engaging is ridiculous behavior. Some people, I want to have on a repeating playlist because I know that they’re going to do some “Grade-A Moron” shit again tomorrow and I don’t want to forget. Instead of putting myself in jeopardy of winding up in jail and potentially ending up someone’s “favorite” prison hoe – I write. I guess that I could write while locked up too, but that’s a different kind of writing and Pen-Pals are so 2^nd grade. Besides, it’s hard to write effectively if you’re constantly looking over your shoulder to see if you’re about to get stabbed with that #2 pencil.

9)      I’m Not Welcome at Children’s Parties – Many of my friends either have children or are about to have children. I love children. I have a child. I should not be around children. My child is exceptional and I say that not because he’s mine [totally said because he’s mine] but because he is truly a unique young man. I often get invited to attend the parties that his little friends’ have for their birthdays. I would no more attend one of these parties than I would deign to perform my own open heart surgery. AYFKM (are you fucking kidding me?) I can see myself surrounded by 6 other moms [probably all wearing athletic pants] discussing the curriculum for the school year - making idle chit-chat over iced tea and eating gluten-free snacks. *insert barf sounds* That, that right there is why I am not welcome at children’s parties. When Billy falls off the swing, I will be the mom to say some shit like “Walk it off tough guy” or “Sack-up” when he starts crying. When Debbie comes out wearing her mom’s make-up and everyone thinks it’s “super-cute!” I’ll be the mom saying “Oh cool, you’re teaching her how to sell herself young. Awesome. Goals!” That! That is why I am no good at parties.

10)  I Suck at Art – I may not be great at writing either, but my art is next level shitty. This right here [see below] is why I write. 

But first let me take a selfie

I am a selfie slut. I say this in all earnestness. I’m sure if I spent time with my nose in some college or doctoral textbook I’d come up theories around why I do this; some childhood event that took place that left the inner child starving for attention and subjecting the rest of the internet to my wounded self-esteem.  There are days when I for real think my eyebrows are on point, my hair is perfectly in place, and my eyes are deep and Spanish and brown and you wish you had them - I can count those days on one hand. The true true of things [that’s not a mistake, watch/read Cloud Atlas] is that on any given day I look in the mirror and see a troll looking back at me. Smeagol stands there each day with that nasty toothless smile and ratty-ass hair saying “Morning precious-es.” My would-be vanity is a thin veil for some passive-aggressive attempt to trick you into saying some shit like “Oh girl, you’re so smart and funny and pretty.” It’s fucking gross the neediness I still harbor in this otherwise dark and charcoal heart. I’d kick my own ass on the playground for being a pussy. So why bring this up? So glad you asked!

                This afternoon I was driving to pick up my spawn from the designated meeting spot selected by the Lord of the Underworld formerly known as my ex-husband, and I passed this vehicle on my left. That’s a lie. They passed me; I’m so damn competitive I can’t even let them win in a blog. I glanced over my shoulder and noticed this semi-attractive woman [gorgeous] adjusting her hair for the photo she was fixing to take of her and her man riding around in their black BMW. Now, the make and model of the car is irrelevant as people can’t see it [mostly except for the fact that it’s better than mine] but what was poignant was the duck face I witnessed and the perfect hair, olive skin tone, and flawless features. Probably 24 and probably Mediterranean, it was hate at first sight. I began breaking her down instantaneously. Without a second thought, autopilot kicks in and I begin dismantling her character and that of the man she’s with as well. This is where the average person grows a conscience and evaluates their thoughts and actions. Nope. Not me. Secretly [or out loud in my car, because that’s my “safe” place to say shit out loud] I am angry she has long, thick and luxurious hair and I pray she burns herself while flat ironing that shit for the hour that she does every morning. Girls like that are high maintenance. I may be mean and crazy, but she takes 4 hours to go to 7-11 on any given day.

                Most of the selfies I take are either with my offspring, with a furry friend of the animal variety, because I stopped hanging out with humans who leave the house wearing stupid outfits [jail and sanitariums are real] or extremely self-defeating. A selfie where I’m sweating like a pig and have one eye open looking like the other got taken out by buckshot; those are my go-to selfies.  Group selfies are good; they prove I have people in my life that still have enough faith in me to be seen out in public with me. Self-esteem is a slippery slope. I either have none at all or I have more than my fair share. I don’t mean to subject the internet to my face; it’s the inner child asking to hold hands and sing kumbaya - to feel a part of rather than apart from. Nah...I’m just a selfie slut!

A thoughtful moment is all

“Understand that all beings want to communicate. Even if the person shows no outward signs of it – he may not be making eye contact, he may be repeating behaviors over and over, or he may be smashing your TV set but he IS communicating. I believe there is no such thing as “random behavior.” Every behavior has an intention behind it.” – Lea M. Hill

I was reading this passage earlier from the book “Women of Spirit,” pg. 109 and I was thinking about how this true this is of all people, not just those that are Autistic; as was being discussed in this particular passage. I may choose not to speak about the issues that are bothering me in my life and in so doing, I end up repeating behaviors that get me there in the first place. I have a nasty habit of trying to do everything on my own; I hate asking for help – cut off my own nose to spite my face.

The problem is, if you follow this thread of not asking and not communicating and then continuing to act out in the same mannerisms; those things that pop up in your life that you think are so “random” whether they be the behaviors or the consequences, they are not so random at all – they are in direct correlation to your active participation of your life.

Communicate. Listen. To others. With yourself. 

Almost a lesbian?

It’s 5 am and I go through the usual grinding of gears that I do. Every day feels like Groundhog day. Each day slightly more painful and harder to force my will into submission. Shove my legs into the sausage casings that people call “athletic pants,” lace myself into my shoes, hoist my sad boobs into their harnesses and out the door I go; praying that age-old trick of “I can’t see you, you can’t see me” holds true as I hit the streets for a run. I don’t do this because I like to, I do it because I like food and I have Hispanic hips. I also like to feel better than you. It’s easy to do this; I can tell you I run 3 miles a day and forget to mention that I hate doing this shit and sweat like pig and sound like a car on its last leg with a dirty carburetor as I collapse at the base of my stairs.   

After this morning’s little brush with death (because that’s what I equate these runs to now) I take my shower and pick out my wardrobe for the day. Showing up for work in a bathrobe is frowned upon even if where I work is super chill, so I stand in front of my closet for what feels like eternity. E-T-E-R-N-I-T-Y. I need a gay male friend to help me with these decisions. I would certainly make better choices. My “give-give-a-fuck” button has been on the fritz since 1998 and if I’m being honest – which is rare – my fashion sense is spotty at best. We can talk about the 90’s when I wore plaid and Dr. Marten’s with bodysuits, but we won’t. Today, I settled on a respectable black silk-ish (I don’t know my fabrics, hence the need for a gay BFF) tank top and slate gray slacks. I decided to pair this with the pair of Puma sneakers I commandeered from my son; very Ellen DeGeneres. Being that I lack the ability to make solid choices when it comes to dressing myself I decided to text my mother. Wait, that’s a lie… I was super proud of myself. I looked super cute and wanted to share. What transpired was a pretty ridiculous conversation that I am happy to share snippets of.

Me: I’m going to "Ellen" them with the boys Puma shoes

Mom: Cute

Me: I know

Me: OMG! I’m an adorable “would-be” lesbian

Mom: Would be?

Let’s pause here – WTF does she mean?? Is she saying she thought I was a lesbian, is she questioning whether or not I intend to become one?? Thanks for the vote of confidence mother. I go on to tell her that there is a problem with this. I like the male anatomy far too much to become a lesbian. That’s not actually how I said it; I didn’t say “male anatomy,” but I’ll leave that wording to your imagination.

Let’s press on –

Me: I wonder if there’s still hope for me? I can change! JK (insert three laughing/crying emoji for effect)

Mom: Questionable.

Mom: Don’t change. I like guessing.

Me: Like Amy Schumer says, vagina, on its best day smells like a small barnyard animal, at least hers does and I’m not down with that. Besides, I’m far too competitive to ever be a lesbian and I don’t fuck ugly bitches. Also, “Don’t change, I like guessing?” That’s your answer??? Perfect!

Mom: I love you bitch.

Me: We’ll see about that. If I get around to it, this has all the makings of a nice little blog. “Almost a lesbian” My mom: my muse.

Mom: You’ve been riding that ledge since teen years. You’ve got the heterosexual wall by fingernails, either way, I love you.

Me: I got nuthin… (insert laughing emoji for effect)

By no stretch of the imagination am I considering life as a lesbian. I am also not an “available” woman. In fact, I am one of the acridest and most inhospitable places on earth. Nothing survives here. Most days I am mildly amused (mostly terrified though) that I was able to carry Curran to term, manage the whole “birthing” thing and that he’s still alive. I am fascinated by the fact that neither of us sits in the corner of the room gently swaying back and forth eating chalk and frothing at the mouth. I kill Chia pets, lose pets rocks, barely manage to dress myself and function in public; having relationships with other human beings is tough. I resort to caveman tactics regularly. Grunting and swinging are natural behaviors and forms of communication for me. It’s bad enough that there is one of me roaming the planet; Curran is out there too you guys. He is out there, he’s going to be big and I can only pray that his gentle heart stays gentle and that the part of me that is crazy and unpredictable stays dormant in him – because if it doesn’t…we’re all fucked! 

Like my mother says to me though: “Either way, I love you.” I will love him the way she loves me; unconditionally. Gay or heterosexual, uncompromising and uncouth - to her, I'm still pretty perfect. I'm good with that...I got all the people I need. Alright, can I have my inheritance now?? 

Women of Spirit

Food for thought as I am examining the part I play in all of my relationships. I am reading a friends book: "Women of Spirit," compiled and edited by, Marie Manning and I stumbled upon a passage written by Grace Ventura, who is a Wellness-Coach. I needed to share - big surprise, but maybe it will help someone else as well. 

"Responsibility is defined as the ability to respond. What truly is my ability? How much energy can I manage? This is determined by my health, vitality and care of myself in mind, body and spirit...as well as my willingness to let go of the old beliefs that dis-empower and disable me. And then comes boundaries. Knowing where my internal limits are and honoring them without making myself wrong...limits about what feels like enough...either too much or too little." pg. 61

The relationships I hold with others as well as the one I am creating with myself pivot on this principle and perhaps that is why this struck me today. Maybe (hopefully) someone else will get something out of it today too. <3

My damn cat

So I was trying to upload a new image for the blog page this morning and my shithead cat photobombed me. Thanks asshole.

Tooth Fairy

It is with a heavy heart that I begin this little story…

                A few weeks ago I had some upgrades started on my face. Nothing major, just some metal drilled into my face, in what would certainly be months of waiting for the final product: a shiny tooth. Today, I watched the dentist pull the metal from face – 3k worth of what is essentially a steroid enhanced staple.

                Last night I’m sitting on my couch watch GOT (yeah, so what – say something. You watch this shit too, don’t even play like ya’ll don’t) after a nice meal and I’m macking on my Quaker Carmel Cakes when I notice that something feels very, very wrong. 1) Quaker Carmel Cakes are fucking delicious, try them. 2) They are fucking delicious, try them. 3) Don’t get between me and these things, I have hurt people for less. 4) I’ve given up booze and drugs, afford me a few liberties; shitty television, swearing and crap food aren’t going anywhere – adjust or be gone. Anyhow…I’m inhaling these little morsels of heaven and I stop mid bite and realize that all hell is breaking loose in my mouth. Legitimately. All hell. Breaking loose. Right now. This fantabulous piece of metal do-hickey costing 3k is just about to fall out in my mouth. I am going to swallow this bitch in my sleep if I’m not careful and I am NOT about to start rooting through my own feces to find it should that take place. “Here Doc, I swallowed it but don’t trip - I found it in my turd, it’s all good” as I drop a dirty Ziploc on the counter. Um hell no! About a zillion different scenarios play out in my head. In one, I choke on it and die leaving my son motherless; what will be engraved on my headstone? “She finally bit off more than she could chew?” Then there’s the storyline where I don’t actually swallow it, but it gets lodged in my brain and I end up a vegetable for life. No more bothering with questions like “flats or heels, dress or jeans?” Takes the guess work out of “what’s for dinner?” I can be practical.

                So I took my practical self to the dentist first thing in the morning. I sat in the chair while he and his assistant poked and prodded around in my mouth. She’s looking at me while she’s snapping her hands into her gloves and asks “no allergies to latex, right?” I am choking back the urge to say some off-color joke. I refrain from saying anything in my typical wheelhouse and manage to simply cough out “no” and they proceed. You know shit is all wrong by the looks on their faces. This isn't even my doctor. My doctor is apparently off playing golf somewhere or tagging a nurse in a broom closet. I don’t know that, but I hope he is; maybe then he’d stop wearing those ridiculous socks. So this doctor is all kinds of worried; I can see it. I look him square in the face and tell him “If you tell me that shit is molly bolted in there and I’m trippin, I will get up out of this chair and leave, and it will be good” to which he replies “Well, I never want to take out another doctors’ implant.”  Here we go…

                He reaches his latexed paw into my mouth and barely touching the metal shaft, pulls it out slowly. That sounded oddly more erotic than I had intended. I feel slightly ill. Yep, he pulls out my little implant and lays it on a piece of gauze and offers to hand it to me. Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t want to see that shit. That was my hopes and dreams. You want to hand me my hopes and dreams on a bloody little pillow? What kind of sick bastard are you?? This is where it gets kind of touchy. If you have feelings – stop reading. Either from first-hand personal knowledge or readings that I have posted, you may be aware of the fact that I lack tact and etiquette. Social graces? Zero. Zilch. Nada. So it goes that without saying that what transpired next was classic “Tina.” The words that came out of my mouth were: “I feel like I just miscarried.” I followed that up with “I am not paying for this all over again!” Now before everyone starts sending hate mail and death threats and flaming dog shit; I am not at all trying to minimize what expectant mothers who face this tragedy go through. NOT AT ALL. My heart goes out to each and every one of you, this is just what fell out of my mouth in that dentist’s office. To be clear, also, there was a certain amount build up around the whole event and then it all fell apart in my lap – or his hand as the case were. In hindsight, the simile was not very considerate, compassionate or appropriate. I laughed though. I’m going straight to hell, but I laughed.

                I have spent the rest of the afternoon licking my wounds, playing with the hole in my face where the expensive piece of bling should be, listening to music and being downright ornery with my co-workers. Oh, and I washed my car yesterday and today it rained. Anything else you want to throw at me?? I have an empty space in my face where I can catch it.


Below is a reference: That big mama-jamma is what they pulled outta my face hole; the one labeled "implant." I get to have that drilled back into my cranium in three months. Yay!

                 

  

Typical Sunday

Captains Log Stardate 8*13*17

So I went to Church today and the pastor said some shit that I’ve heard before but struck a chord louder and more deafening than usual. He said “Our goal in life should be how we live it not where we end up.”

Tina, you go to Church? Yes, I attend church. If anyone’s ass needs saving, it’s mine. I may not subscribe to the same religious upbringing that was not so much a suggestion growing up but was more just the way things were. I remember telling my Catholic Grandmother that I was exploring other religions; the paramedics were dispatched shortly after. No, they weren’t but she also didn’t speak to me for nearly a month and dismissed my curiosity the same way she dismissed me when I went vegetarian or had any other ideals that did not fit the schemata she already had set in place. I don’t blame her. She’s old; old as fuck and unwilling to see things differently. Imagine if I had told her I was a lesbian or I was joining Greenpeace. I still have love for her even though she fed me beans made with lard when I was vegan. Change and acceptance is tough ya’ll – I struggle on the daily. Maybe that’s why I feel better after having lowered my ass into a seat on Sunday mornings. I surrender to something that I don’t understand, yet I always feel better for having done so. I accept that I’m a shitty person that does fucked up shit and while God doesn’t come down to play a game of Battleship with me or grab a Gelato together to make the icky feelings go away, I feel like I get what I need in that big room full of strangers I have no intention of EVER meeting or talking to.

Making my goal in life how I live it and not where I end up; sounds legit - easier said than done though. I sat in that giant classroom (that’s what it feels like to me) this morning and I thought to myself “I got this.” That’s my famous line. I’ve never met a situation that I didn’t come at sideways saying “I got this shit” and invariably always fucked up. ALWAYS. So I’m thinking about how in theory, that sounds easy and I should be able to live that lifestyle. I could tweak a couple of things here and there and BOOM I’m living an honorable life that is on the up-and -up. Then I remember who I am. Wah-wah-wah! Now, I’m not saying I’m completely incapable of change; I’m just saying it’s a little like bamboo torture for me. Putting all of my faith in the “hope” basket seems kind of foolhardy or maybe I should strike that and reverse it? Hope in the faith basket? Growing up aren’t we taught that we need to make our own way, forge our destinies? Aren’t we taught that we need to have a major in college as well as a minor – a plan B in case some shit falls apart in your lap? Maybe your degree in American Literature or Classic French Art gets you nowhere and you need to fall back on that Business degree. Isn’t that about where you end up?? I signed up for none of that shit. I was a clever girl and signed up Applied Behavioral Sciences. I can’t afford therapy and I don’t’ need to tell anyone my secrets; I’ll only have to bury their body later. I hate manual labor. I’ll just treat myself. Want it done correctly? Do it yourself.  I’m also inherently lazy, so here we sit – me, untreated and stark raving mad and you my, captives. I stopped saying “hostages” a while ago because it sounds so hostile. “Captives” sounds like it still has potential to have the word “audience” after it.

The dichotomy of what we are taught growing up so starkly contrasting what I was hearing in that massive classroom this morning hit me hard. I wanted to exit stage left, get myself my coffee from my local chain establishment, destroy all the patrons in my head (I did) and then plan out the rest of my life moment by moment and chastise myself for not meeting my moment by moment itinerary. It’s not enough that I do this already in bouts of periodic depression; I need to do this on a Microsoft Calendar and sync it with my iPhone and all other mobile devices to make sure that I don’t miss a step. I walked into Church this morning feeling moderately hard on myself and now I think I just need to step up my game a little; you know, stay ahead of things. And that my friends, is just how quickly my shit can get derailed. I have just taken a sermon intended to keep me safely in God’s loving grace and turned it into how I am fucking it all up and how to ensure I stay a step ahead of the Big Man. Apparently I am once again saying “I got this shit.”

I may never really know what living a life not concerned with the end destination looks like. I am a shallow and materially driven woman.  I have a good heart too, but at the end of the day, my creature comforts win. I am human, fallible and learning to accept those things. That doesn’t mean that there isn’t room for growth, it just means that for now if you touch my Quaker Carmel Cakes without asking or adjust the thermostat, I may not have room for you in my life. If you are in direct opposition with the plans I am creating presently for myself – feel free to see yourself to the door because I am a nice person and gosh darn it, people like me. Just kidding; I’m an asshole; don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

Table for 1

there is a line upon which I dance

a thin line and wavering line

gently undulating

or

violently careening

between

insanity,

greatness,

destruction

wildfire

and the rainstorm that calms my soul

burn it all to the ground

walk away from it all

laughing madly

dark hallways and alleys you fear

places you’re sure

to lose your mind

you’ll find me there

at a table for one

crying out my song for all to hear

ferocious heart

ungovernable will

a siren in the empty streets

inspiration can be a lonely place

pull up a chair

found my worth

one day

in losing my battle with self

set beliefs ablaze

cut the fat

and it burn it too

dance around the fire

i’ll keep you warm

"safe" is not my cup of tea

these days

but you can dance with me

if you like

Back to basics

Yo! Let’s get real about some stuff this morning. I’ve tried my hand at some other writings the last couple of days and now that I’ve dusted off those unused keys on my keyboard; the ones other than F-U-C and K and also S-H-I and T – let’s talk about some for real shit.

Friday Morning Traffic: To the douche-nozzle in the puce colored Kia Soul driving along the shoulder – I hope you pop your tire and crash your ugly car. Is it really that important to get ahead of me? Must you try that diligently to not merge with the rest of traffic because somehow you think that your shitty little four-banger is better than mine or anyone else’s on the road for that matter? Got news for you: the shoulder was not placed there so that you could utilize it to “get ahead” or “one up” the rest of us. Wait. I just pulled up alongside of you two miles down the road; a lot of good it did you. It is 8 am, I am not caffeinated yet, I’m still rubbing sleep from my eyes and have taken cold showers for the last two days because my apartment complex has no hot water. Fuck with me. I dare you. You’re lucky I have to pee and coffee is the most important task on my itinerary at the moment.  

Satellite Radio is messing up my game: I put my pants on just like anyone else - one leg at a time and praying that I maintain balance. I need full body armor or bubble wrap at the very least to perform even the most menial of tasks without ending up in the urgent care. Just like the rest of civilized peoples (I’ll count myself among them today) I have preset radio stations. I do this because I truly love music of all kinds, because I’m inherently lazy by nature and thought of dial turning makes me tired, and because I have a vehicle that offers this so why the hell not?? Certain times of day call for certain types of music. Typically, my morning commute is fueled by the station that they called “Faction.” This glorious station was a columniation of punk and a generous sprinkling of “beats.” You would hear bands like Fugazi, Screeching Weasel, Rancid and Descendants then BLAM you’d get slapped with Tribe Called Quest or Binary Star. It was my Zen.  It died this morning. Or rather I noticed it was dead when I went to put the station on and it had been replaced by Guns and Roses. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! An entire station dedicated to this shit band 24/7?! Oh, for fucks sake! I hate you SiriusXM. I want a refund of my $20.00/month so I can get my nails done and listen to the ladies in the nail salon talk shit about me in a foreign language. Extreme? Maybe. Music is my sanity though, and you just stole it. Did I mention this is day 2 of cold showers? FML.

Am I famous yet? While I truly enjoy the rewarding feeling of getting up every morning before the sun and working a solid 8-10 hours without hearing a “thank you” or “nice job” more than once a year – which is at our Christmas party when my boss begrudgingly hands me my bonus check while still holding onto it firmly like he doesn’t want to part ways with it – I’m really over it too. Picking up a paycheck every two weeks that just barely keeps my ass in house and home is great; and don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful…but I would also love to sit on my ass reading all day and tossing grapes into the open mouth of a monkey (because I want a pet monkey – one that won’t eat my face off) while fanning myself with the latest copy of Rolling Stone. You thought I’d say something I had written, didn’t you?? I’m not that arrogant. Yet. There’s always a yet…

Stay humble my friends.

Strike while hot

I have to be in the mood

To drink 

To smoke

To write

Dance or even to fuck

It's a conscious effort on my part

A stage to set 

With actors and scenes

This shit bar offers few options

The married man staring hard at my tits

The woman in the corner whose husband left her

And the drunk in the corner who pissed himself

But then - just then I see him

He'll do - just the right kind of man 

For tonight - perhaps tomorrow if I don't bore of him 

Mood; like jazz notes hanging

Heavy

In the summer night air 

And if neither of us speaks

Our lines are

Perfect

When you think about how easily it all goes wrong 

It's easier to never begin

Instead we dance

And drink

And fuck 

I'll write until dawn and when the sun is on the avenue below

He'll leave

And I am alone again

Maybe I'll be lonely again 

Sometime 

Or maybe not

It's easier to never start

But sometimes 

The mood catches me 

And I'm fucked

Routine

And the water in the shower is biting cold

Again

I stand beneath the stream

Naked, shivering and painfully still

Screaming

Silently

The neighbor’s dog, Jethro, is bounding across the floor upstairs

I can hear him

The way I always do

And I close my eyes

Coffee is burning in the other room

I’ll need more than this

So much more than this

To get by

I lose myself in these moments

Stumble into dreams

Awaken to apocalypse

And it’s all I can do to keep from laughing myself into tomorrow

Where I’m standing beneath the same fucking shower head

And drinking burnt coffee

Myspace or your space?

This shit was my wedding day. I’m 28 years old in this picture, I have a new baby and I’m relatively good looking. I should be happy, right? One would think so. Can you see the look of concern on my baby’s face? I have this look of “Fuck it, I guess this is it, someone pass me the bottle of champagne” Yanko (that’s my ex-husbands name) is thoroughly disgusted. His sour ass face is straight up HATING me already and we have just barely said our vows. We were married in his brother’s backyard in New Jersey, don’t ask me what month or year anymore as I have shoved those details into the farthest and darkest corners of my mind hoping never to remember; it was a crap relationship to begin with and this marriage would set the tone for the next two years. A picture is worth a thousand words? Choke on this shit people. We fucking hated each other. I at least tried to look like I wasn’t going to kill him in his sleep. Don’t worry, I’ll keep this short and sweet just like my marriage.

Yanko and I met on Myspace. Hahahahahahahaha. Myspace: should just end the story here. Nuff said. Myspace is to the dating world what Kmart is fine clothing retail. After some time messaging back and forth we agreed to meet up at a bar, because what else would an alcoholic chick who likes to dance and thinks she’s hot shit do? For real, I thought I had mad game back in the day. I was at the same bar every Thursday – Saturday. It is NOT respectable when the bouncers all know you by first name and know that you dance alone. I always danced alone and the bouncers were kind enough to re-inforce that for me. It is NOT respectable when you are on a first name basis with the musicians and they know “your” song is Mustang Sally and play it for you at approximately the same time each night because they understand that pretty soon those shots of Patron and Gin and Tonic chasers are going to catch up with you and your dancing is compromised – and that’s a generous understatement. It’s NOT respectable to lose your belongings at the bar and say “fuck it” because you know you’ll be back next week and Ted (bartender) will hold onto your crap for you. So, Yanko and I met at my bar. I spit my game, he spits his and 6 months later I was preggo.

This dude was crazy tall! 6’7” to be exact. When he wore shoes, which was rare because his ass lived in flip flops, he was 6’8” or taller. I would go to give him a hug and my eyes were level with his nipples. I felt like a midget. Sorry - little person. No, fuck it! Midget. My blog, my rules. I think there was something attractive about him being so damn big but at the moment I can’t remember. I just remember having neck aches from having to look up all the damn time. Now that I think about it, I’m kinda pissed we didn’t go to concerts; his shoulders would have been perfect for viewing. I’m sorry little people behind us, you can’t see? Guess you should have purchased seated tickets instead of lawn seats like us peasants. He wasn’t all bad. He liked animals, was cool with plants, and for better or worse is a good father to our son. We were/are just complete opposite ends of the spectrum. For the most part I’m happy-go-lucky (yes, I am!) and he was always (yes, always) more like someone just kicked his dog. I can’t be happy for you and you can’t drag me down. The bottom is too cold for me.

Why get married? Because I told him he better marry me. LMAO. Yes, that is exactly how that shit went down. It is my own damn fault I am in that wedding photo wondering if I am going to make it through the night. It is my fault I am wondering if I just spent $400.00 on a gown that I will most likely defecate in later. You know you shit yourself when you die, right? I looked that nearly 7-foot-tall Sasquatch in the eye and said: “You better marry!” I had never before said something so stupid (not true, definitely said dumber shit before; will again too I’m sure) I was empty as hell on the inside and I think I was trying to fill my emptiness with someone else’s empty. Guess what? Still empty, but now I’m empty and angry. 

I keep looking back at the wedding photo for inspiration. He didn’t even wear shoes to our wedding. He wore his Vans. Beat up kicks with holes in the bottom. We ate subs that night and shitty shrimp cocktail. The only redeeming part of the evening was that my dad was there. I wanted to cry the whole time. I wanted to cry and drink and forget and hide. I couldn’t though. I created this shit. I created it and now I was stuck in New Fucking Jersey!!!

Holy shit, Tina! “This just got really fucking dark and fucked up,” you may be saying to yourself - don't. I laugh my ass off when I look at this photo. I for real thought I was going to shit the dress. I for real thought my life was over. The disdain and visible disgust is comic to me now. I honestly thought I was going to be stuck for the rest of eternity tethered to a douche bag that I hated and I knew HATED the fuck out me too. Nothing is permanent, or at least it doesn’t have to be.

I could not have imagined the twists and turns my life would take, some good and some bad, but they’re all mine and I own them much like I own my foul mouth and quirky ways. It’s what makes me, me. I had no idea then that that woman up there would become the woman I am today. If your life is shit today, hang in there, it could get worse tomorrow; but it could also get better.

 Hang in there ~ it gets better... 

ps: I lied about it being short. I'm still a liar :) 

Namaste Bitches

You ever ask someone a some really dumb question like: “What would you do if you had a million dollars?” What is it that we hope to uncover by asking this question? Life’s great mystery? If they answer with some altruistic bullshit like “I would donate to charity” or “I would help find a cure for Cancer” does that make them better than you or I? The answer is yes. Yes, it does. I’m totally cool with that. They can be better than me. Have at it! What, you expected to me say that I would feed the homeless and read to blind kids? Maybe I would build the world a home? Fuck that! No! Think again! Maybe back when I wore patchouli, burned incense (among other things) and danced in the rain. I’m much more practical and down to earth these days.

Don’t get me wrong, I want little blind kids to hear a good story and I want Cancer patients to live, but I want to live in comfort too and if I had to choose…well… Collectively, 30 jaws just dropped and I think I just heard my mom cry out “oh fuck, she fucking went there.” I have zero tact. ZERO. It’s probably why you continue to read. I know it’s why I continue to write. I’m as surprised as you by what ends up on these pages. Ok, let’s get back to this then, shall we? If I had a million dollars…

I would for sure buy a HUGE ass house but it would be for me and maybe a few friends, assuming I still have any after the comments I’ve made earlier in this rant. I want my compound to have an Olympic size pool with a slide and a diving board. I want it to have a petting zoo also. Feeding small animals is great, but I also need someone to clean that shit up because I had trouble cleaning up after my own offspring. Small hairy and smelly beasts should be handled by someone who is less likely to get rid of them when they become too much work. I have a habit of tossing things that no longer serve me – ask boyfriends 3-5 and refer to vehicles 1,2,4 and 6. This domicile of mine would also have a roller skating rink below the theater and an art gallery adjacent to my writing den. All rooms would be kept at comfortable 76 degrees because I get cold and I don’t care how you feel. I get cold. I’m the millionaire here. I’m sorry, did you say something? I can’t hear you over the sound of me fanning myself with my money.

On the real – I squeeze the very last vestiges of toothpaste from the tube. That stuff is not cheap anymore and I’ve been spending hella money on my teeth as of late. I’m gonna smile and I’m gonna spend hella money ensuring my smile is better, brighter and prettier than yours. I grimace when I have to spend $20 at Target for 5 pairs of underwear that will fall apart in a couple of months because I am too lazy to separate my laundry or change the setting to gentle on the washer. I buy generic everything – why the hell not?

The other day I was offered a compliment on my attire by a random woman and I openly offered “Thanks, it’s from Target” like she needed to know that shit. She was clearly going to get in her SUV and head right over and get her a pair of pants just like mine. She had to know that it was a deal! Sometimes (all the time) I lack a filter. I over-share in situations that make people uncomfortable. There was the time at the store I told the large black man behind me who was purchasing Pine-Sol “I love the smell of Pine-Sol” WTF?! This dude was the size of Marcellus Wallace in Pulp Fiction and I peeked at what he was buying and told him I liked the smell of Pine-Sol???  Are you shifting in your seat yet? Do you feel sorry for me yet? If I win a million dollars I need to buy a small home on a large piece of land far, far away from the rest of civilization (and animals for that matter) and live out the rest of my days alone. It’s the only safe thing for me – and you.

If you know me at all, you know that I still like patchouli, I still dance in the rain, I volunteer regularly, would give you my internal organs if you needed them and would have no clue what to do with a million dollars if I had it – except to donate it and spend the rest of my days reading to children (minus all the current profanity I use)

~ Namaste Bitches!